On the Third Day
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: The Battle of Hogwarts is over, as is the Second Wizarding War. But as trials begin, Andromeda's justice can only come at her hands.


**_Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series is not my original work; thus, I profit from nothing. The following is strictly for entertainment purposes._**

* * *

"Bring him to me."

"Yes, ma'am, Madam Lestrange."

The young guard recoiled harshly, clawing from the shockingly white room as violently as the winds had swept her into the fortress. Steel walls ricocheted her command, their harshness terrorizing until silenced by gritted teeth.

Andromeda Tonks was a woman of a certain age whose bereavement was all that prevented her from correcting the apprehensive, novice of a prison guard who, not only wouldn't last a millisecond with the supposed "madam," but also surely wondered why she returned to this godforsaken place.

Azkaban was cold; colder, she imagined, than in the days of Dementors swarming over the North Sea.

Smoothing navy robes, she took a seat upon the hard, stone bench spanning the perimeter of the magically enlarged space. Pushing caramel tresses away from her worn face, Andromeda withdrew her month-old copy of the _Evening Prophet _from her pocket.

Harry Potter thought her slowly descending into madness. Andromeda glimpsed him, last they had dinner. Though then preoccupied with how neatly her utensils were cutting the venison, bright green orbs arrogantly pitied her. Silly, bold enough were they to form opinions on the thinness of her wrists and bulging neck bones but not matured to the point that such gazes could be given when their eyes locked.

_Still a child_, she was forced to remind herself, _but a child fresh from sparing all of our arses a lifetime of slavery…._

And maybe he was right, maybe she was going off the deep end. Andromeda's one track mind produced nothing but variations of the same question, time and time again, "What's the latest on this suspect/that suspect?" and did nothing to help her own proverbial case nor did the crazed glint filling her cocoa colored stare.

Nevertheless, Potter, concluding it only a matter of time before she snapped and created a scene during the trials, advised she keep away from the courts as he would relay all pertinent developments. _Courts_. Not once did the awkward, scrawny twig say _anything _about _Azkaban._

She'd be thrown into the nearest empty cell, if the Wizengamot could see her now, if they knew what business she had here: a respectable woman agitating war criminals (oh, _yes,_ they were _all _soiled), known to have personally offended her in one way or another, before legal proceedings could commence - threatening to leave nary a soul _Crucio_-free should even one warden breathe a word of her presence to anyone.

This wasn't her first visit to Azkaban nor the second.

The most enjoyable visit had been the first. Andromeda killed two birds, no snakes, with one stone. The Lestranges were pushed in, one now as thin as the other. Ever the lumps on logs, they sat ten feet from her, dead behind the eyes. Satisfied, she brandished her weapon, raised her voice and began.

"_...also among Lord Voldemort's dead followers is Bellatrix Lestrange, 47, perhaps best known as the ringleader of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom, a deed assisted by her husband, Rodolphus, brother-in-law, Rabastan, and Bartemius Crouch, Jr., son of the former Head of Department of International Cooperation."_

Andromeda's eyes snapped up, her reading frequented with grunts she knew perfectly well were one hundred percent involuntary. But the great oafs' track records screamed of rudeness and only when neither had a pulse did she end storytime.

The awards for most entertaining? To Antonin and Lucius, her second visit. Andromeda slowly crossed the room, finding familiarity, something she once loathed, a current asset. As children, so many people mistook her and Bellatrix for twins - something that carried into adulthood, as evidenced by the faces of Diagon Alley shoppers, appalled to learn Florean Fortescue's apparently patronized criminals recently sentenced to life in prison. When young, sisterly resemblance succeeded in curbing many of Andromeda's arguments. Circling the bound, pathetic, wizards, Andromeda knew it was not her they saw but Bellatrix. Not her they heard, but Bellatrix.

Antonin, to his credit, remained surly and insulted at his predicament. Ever the loud mouth reliable for quick retorts, he'd been mute since the guards delivered him although regular flinches and blinking betrayed his surly, long, twisted face. The peacock admirer, however, was exactly the opposite. Indeed, the contrasts of the duo made for an exemplary performance. Lucius mewled uncontrollably as she traced his strong jawline and expelled all his frenzy when long nails combed through limp, greasy strings of blonde.

"Why are you here? _Why are you here?"_

How very strangled her brother-in-law's cries were. How very strangled Nymphadora and Remus' cries must have been as they choked on and perished in their own blood, surrounded by that horrific atmosphere in their final moments.

"Mrs. Tonks, I'm sorry to disturb you but it is time for the inmates' trials."

The frail escort shook, speaking a mile a minute. He gazed determinedly at the ground, probably half expecting her to hex him into next year or worse. Stowed deep within her pocket, the clipping detailing her captors' involvement begged for release.

"Fine. I expect prompt informing of their return."

_Oh, yes,_ they would return. Remus' blood, and Merlin knows how many others', were on Antonin's hands, and Lucius was guilty of quartering escapees, aiding/abetting and a plethora of other infractions. There was no way in hell he could slither out of it, as the Malfoy name had been far too sullied and bribery was out of the picture. Andromeda couldn't wait to get her sister and her even paler offspring to herself.

But Andromeda kept focus, mindful of the need to take things slowly. And, so, she paced up and down on this, the third day, clothed in wrinkled, navy robes - the very robes she'd slept in since she first arrived. Her eyes were heavy, her muscles sore, her hair unkempt.

But today …. today, she got the _prize_. _She, _who was the catalyst for so much death; _she, _who authored so much hate speech; _she, _who, if Andromeda had the presence of mind to be honest with herself, deserved _Avada Kedavra _more than Bellatrix.

Pink and orange, the vile pamphlet insisted Muggle-borns posed some sort of danger to a perfect, peaceful pure-blood society – that they somehow "stole" magic. Andromeda snorted, turning her head from the creation that should have been burned the moment her daughter placed it in her hands.

When the door creaked open, she turned on a dime. _This was her moment…_

Dolores Umbridge stepped through cautiously, a complete and utter mess now that her broad face was makeup free. Her hair was dry and unhealthy, mousse-less and greying. Blue eyes popped and faced each other.

"Well, well, not so mighty without the pink." Andromeda nodded slowly, examining the toad-like witch, authoritatively. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Deafening silence was what she expected to follow her cruel words bouncing off the walls, an open-mouthed, confused gawk, with drool pooling on the floor.

"Really, Mrs. Tonks, I am not so easily broken! By rounding up lessers, I have merely done my part for society."

"You, you bastard!" A half scream, half sob was her gasp. How was it this menace still had wits? How was it that, while Ted's body decomposed, Azkaban had yet to sufficiently punish she who allowed him to be murdered? How was it this bitch remained of herself enough to simper and bounce, while her Teddy would never know his _mother_, his _father_, his _grandfather_?

"I am Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to Minister Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Order of Merlin, First Class …"

Andromeda said nothing. She only stared, the specimen's continuous guffawing and sudden rolling of eyes negating any further speech the widow might have dared to voice. When the same declaration was sang for the eighth time, seconds apart, it became clear her wrongs had not yet had time to destroy, that prison acted patiently with this one. Andromeda knocked Umbridge to the ground, hatred nearly blacking her vision, rushing out as guards entered to fetch the still laughing mass.

Shuddered breaths were granted liberty, no sooner than she entered the hall. Andromeda delicately placed a hand over her heart, afraid it would rip through her chest. The display was too much for now but her work wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Andromeda was never gone for too long.

_**Fin**_**.**


End file.
